


Automatization

by r0bots



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Anxiety, M/M, Routine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0bots/pseuds/r0bots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em></em><strong>AUTOMATIZATION</strong><br/><br/>n. 1. the practice of a skill or habit to the point whereby it becomes routine and requires little if any conscious effort or direction. 2. the state of individuals who obey compulsive thoughts so automatically that the resulting behavior may be described as automata (see automaton).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Automatization

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Ana, my beautiful cinnamon roll, who inspired me to write this!

 

 

 

 

It happens at sudden — a thought that could change everything, cropping up there just casually, at the surface of his mind.

It makes the man stop his frantic steps and look around. The deserted city park looking back at him, old trees and playgrounds of faded colors staring, judging.

It is a beautiful place, he thinks. Lonely, but beautiful.

(The word ‘lonely’ stands out in his thoughts.)

He glances at his wristwatch, fully aware he is doing so. “ _Ten_ past six. . .”He mumbles to himself. By now, he should be entering his little cubicle of office.

He sits down on a nearby wood bench instead.

Unlike him, time does not stop. The villainous pointer on the watch keeps moving, its _tics_ and _tocs_ demanding.

You’re late. Move your ass. You’ll get fired. Run.

Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc.

The man stays there for what seems to be a whole minute, breathing in and out, trying to calm down the beating of his heart. The sun starts to rise somewhere above the tree crowns. The morning fog is refreshing, droplets of water playfully landing on the man’s hair and beard. He hears birds singing. Have they been singing before? The fact that he can’t remember makes him mad. What else in his life had he missed because he simply wasn’t paying attention?

He rubs his eyes, looks at his wristwatch, only to discover ten minutes have passed. It’s quite scary, he thinks, how fast time passes by when we’re not paying attention.

Time is scary.

He takes of his wristwatch and shoves it in his pocket. That’s when the first person besides him shows up in the park. A woman.

She wears a blue dress and black heels. Her steps make confident and deadly sounds on the footpath pavement the man has been following earlier, probably heading the same direction he should be going to right now — the right exit of the park, the one with the big gates, leading to the business heart of the town. He watches her carefully as she passes by, without a hint of nastiness in his eyes, just an innocent, recently discovered curiosity about people.

The woman keeps moving non-stop, her steps getting faster as she approaches the gate, as if she is running away from something— o _r someone,_ the man wonders, suddenly too self-aware he is a man in a deserted park. God, he truly hopes he does not scare anyone else. He just wants to notice—

To notice.

He feels the buzz in one of his jeans’ pockets. His cell phone, daring to distract him from this real world. He tries his hardest not to give in the impulse to answer. _Please, stop_. Ten seconds later, the buzzing ends and the man notices he has company again.

A small group of elderly people approaches. They walk around happily, chattering and laughing old laughs full of joy. The man wishes to know what they’re talking about. Unlike their laughter, though, their voices are so low all the man can hear are indistinct noises — like butterflies sharing a secret, he thinks. He can’t remember the last time he saw a real butterfly.

He can’t remember the last time he shared a secret with someone, either. Do I have any secrets?

Before the man can answer that he notices the crowd.

He wonders, blinking, when did that happen. Just like that, in a blink of an eye, the park is crowded. People of all ages and sizes and colors, chattering and laughing, playing in playgrounds and exercising, everywhere. The man blinks again, still astonished by the sudden change of scenario. He might not have been paying enough attention.

(I just want to notice—)

There’s a woman carrying a newborn baby on her arm. A teenage couple walk by holding hands in a shy silence. A big golden retriever runs free, a screaming boy after him. The woman with the baby shouts something — the screaming kid is her child! His cell phone is buzzing in his pocket again.

The man finds himself closing his eyes; shadows dancing on his eyelids, the sound of their loud confusing voices turning into an overwhelming white noise in his ears. Eventually, his cell phone stops buzzing. Then the wood beneath him cracks a bit and someone is sitting next to him. “Sorry”, says a slightly husky voice.

“It’s ok” The man says, his eyes still shut.

They stay still and silent while the rest of world keeps moving and screaming words. Two strangers sharing a wood bench.

“Ditching work, huh?”

“Huh?”The man opens his eyes. Light. He blinks.

“ _Huh?_ ” The stranger retorts in a mocking voice, and they both snort. “You don’t look like the type of guy who ditches work, though.”

“Why are you so sure I’m ditching work?”He blinks and blinks. His eyes still getting used to daylight again.

“Dark straight-leg jeans. Light blue button-down shirt. Dress shoe. . .”He motions at the men’s clothes “Plus, your cell phone doesn’t stop buzzing and you’re trying really hard to ignore it.”

“Do you always sit next to strangers and describe what they’re wearing?”A raise of eyebrow.

“I’m an observer. And I like to talk.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The stranger smiles — not for the first time, but certainly the widest most full-of-perfect-white-teeth smile he had displayed until now.

 “Sergio.” He says, offering a hand.

“Iker. “Says the man. And they both shake hands, a little less strangers to one another.

“So, I was right? “Sergio asks, bending down a little so he can rest his arms on his own thighs. Iker notices he has tattoos and it catches his attention.

“Yeah. . .”Iker is aware of his voice coming out embarrassingly distracted the moment it comes out of his mouth. He distorts his eyes to the ground a little bit too fast and hears a chuckle. If Sergio noticed him staring, he decides not to talk about it. “You _are_ right” Iker says, finally. “I did ditch work today, and I’m not the type of guy who does this kind of stuff.”

“So I was right twice.”Sergio says, amusing himself. Iker ignores his irrelevant remark.

“I don’t know what came to me. This is—”Iker shakes his head. “I’ll probably get fired.”

“Nah, you won’t.”Sergio affirms. Iker notices Sergio likes affirmations. Maybe it helps him to believe he actually knows about things. “What do you do?”

“I’m an accountant.”

Sergio makes a noise.“Sounds boring. You deal with numbers, right?”

“All day.”

“I hate numbers. They made me feel dumb at school. I don’t need them.”

Iker instinctively looks back at Sergio, eyes full of daring disbelief.

“Okay” Sergio admits, somehow understanding the silent inquiry, “I do use numbers to do simple stuff, like, counting bills and telling the time; nothing too difficult, y’know? What I’m trying to say is. . . Those really fucking complicated equations they tried to teach me at school have no use for me.”

Iker nods, noticing the topic has changed a bit. He notices many things about him.

“But tell me why you ditched” Sergio says, bringing the initial topic back. “You say you’re not the type of guy who does that so you’ve got to have a very good reason.” He’s smiling again, his eyes wide and bright like he genuinely cares about the boring story of a boring accountant he’s just met. Iker stares at him for good long seconds, studying him.

Of all things and creatures he has seen in today, Sergio is by far the most interesting.

“Actually, I don’t.” Iker answers, the sincerity in his voice making him uncomfortable, God knows why. He notices he’s been clasping his hands, his fingers intertwined. How long have I been doing that? “I just—”The words escape him. Pathetic. A boy kicks a ball too hard and it flies dangerously close to where they’re standing. Sergio claps in encouragement   then gives the kid double thumbs up when he comes nearby. Iker wonders if Sergio has children.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

Daylight. His irises are used to the daylight now; nonetheless, Iker blinks. “For a moment I got distracted by the kid, I’m really sorry if I didn’t hear you.”It must be his eyes, Iker thinks. Golden and wide and beautiful and sincere, looking genuinely sorry for missing words Iker has never said.

He wants to tell him there’s no need to apologize, really, but he’s too afraid Sergio will look away if he does so. Instead, he says “it’s ok”, fingers rubbing anxiously against one another because maybe he has spent too many seconds in silence and Sergio’s looking away now and, oh, God, he’s looking away! “Are those tattoos recent?”

Stomach tying up in knots. Hands rubbing against jeans like he’s trying to get rid of dirt. Sergio looks at him again, brightening up. Iker blinks, breathing in while looking into those eyes again. Golden and wide. It’s ok. He breaths out. Beautiful and sincere.

Sergio, Iker learns, likes to talk with his hands just as much as he does verbally. He points at every illustration on his arms, explaining when he got them and what they mean to him. Not every tattoo had a sentimental backstory, though. Some of them were there just because Sergio thinks they were pretty enough to be permanently inked on his skin. “This is crazy” Iker thinks out loud and in response to that Sergio laughs.

“I think tattoos are like people, you know. You allow some into your life because they really mean something to you; others simply because they are good-looking—”Sergio interrupts himself with an amused _tsk_ when Iker snorts. “Seriously, hear me out” he continues, “if you truly love them, they’ll all get inked into you somehow. They can leave you and their ink can fade, but never truly disappear. . .”

Iker asks if it’s Sergio job to meet random people and tell them shitty metaphors. Sergio tells him that’s just his hobby. Iker grins.

He learns Sergio’s a coach of a  football team of 5-year-olds, which leads them to a long talk about clubs and forgotten childhood dreams. Iker wanted to be a professional goalkeeper as a kid but it didn’t work out, his good memory eventually leading him to a boring career involving numbers. Sergio wanted to be a striker, but a permanent leg injury got in the way.  Motorbike accident. Nothing too serious that would prevent him from leading a normal life, he adds comfortingly, when Iker mouths a sorry. He could still walk and jog around, but running for hours and kicking for a life were out of question. Iker says he’s sorry again. “It’s ok” Sergio says with a smile, “I’m happy the ways things turned out.”

Iker doesn’t say anything back for a moment. He notices Sergio studying him, as if his expression lines are sentences written in an ancient alphabet with no translation. He notices how Sergio’s wrinkles get deeper when he smiles (Sergio’s still smiling) and his eyes seem to get darker when he’s intrigued. He notices Sergio scratching his left arm. Maybe the silence is finally starting to unease him. Iker wants to say something. He notices so many things. . .

“I should probably get going.”

Stomach tightening. Hands clasping together again. Sergio’s standing up and glancing at his wristwatch. The sunlight shines bright behind him, like a full-body halo. Iker blinks and blinks and blinks again. He has no idea what time is it but he hates it. He hates the time. Scary, mercifulness time demanding Sergio to be somewhere else.

“It was really nice meeting you, Iker” Sergio says, offering a hand. Iker stands up before holding Sergio’s hand, shaking it politely. He wants to say something nice but the words fail him once again.

“Nice meeting you too, Sergio.”

The answer is painfully generic, Iker thinks, but the way Sergio brightens up at the mention of his own name made it sound somehow relevant. Iker’s taking mental notes on that when his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. “Argh, give me a fucking break!” he groans, taking the mobile out of his pocket.

“You’re gonna answer that?” Sergio’s grinning.

Iker looks at the screen for a second. It buzzes one, two, three more time before Iker triumphally presses the end call button. He looks at Sergio then, his own eyes wide and scared, for a brief second, of future consequences, but then Sergio laughs and Iker’s laughing along, his shoulders relaxing. He’ll think about tomorrow later.

“Give me your phone” Sergio says, his voice sounding surprised, as if he’s just had that idea and happened to accidently voice it out loud simultaneously. Iker hands it to him, no questions asked. Sergio types something, and when Iker gets his mobile back he sees Sergio’s name in his contacts.

Iker, not entirely sure why, thanks him.

Sergio makes a tsk sound, and there’s no _you’re welcome_ in response. Instead, he says “hope to hear from you”, which Iker thinks is way better. “Have a nice day” is all what Iker manage to say, and they wave goodbye.

Sergio follows the footpath leading to the heart of the city. Iker walks the opposite direction; deciding, just now, he’s going home, and the route somehow feels different, even if he’s lost count of how many times he’s walked there. There are colorful wildflowers growing on the bushes, horribly drawn graffiti on walls nearby and a tiny coffee shop between two tall buildings.

He notices all these things, all these things and how he’s been smiling the most genuine smile he’s displayed in months.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of didn't know where I was going when I started writing this? I'm just glad I'm still able to finish something tbh. Please let me know what you think of this fic, and also if there's any grammar mistakes/weird choice of words as English's not my first language and all that jazz. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> (ps.: I don't know shit about psychology, but i've heard about automatization in one of my literature classes and i thought it'd be a fitting name for this fic??? The definition in the summary is from a real online psychology dictionary tho)


End file.
